I return to Finnmark in July. Now the snow has thawed, revealing rock and bog, pools of deep blue water, and clear skies.
It is the time of year when the sun does not set. At midnight I set out for a walk along the ragged coast of the Varanger Peninsula near the small village of Ekkerøy. Little has changed since the seventeenth century. I follow the same path as my characters until I have a view of traditional wooden racks used for drying fish. The very same as the racks used by the fishermen's wives of my novel. Beyond are cliffs, spattered white, the air thick with screeching gulls.
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